Page 64 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

And why is there a bit of relief at the idea?

“Kidding, kidding. But I do have some news for you. Excellent news.”

“Wow.” Trying to sound enthusiastic, I gather some spare disposable baskets and stack them. “What is it?”

“Remember how I mentioned my friend at a local network here?”

“Like TV network?” Of course, the second the words leave my mouth, I know I sound like an idiot.

Dale chuckles. “Yes, TV network. Anyway, they had a celebrity chef lined up to do a spot next Tuesday on the morning show, but he had to cancel due to a family emergency. I slipped my friend your name and resume a while back, and he said he’d keep you in mind for things like this.” My business partner pauses. Meanwhile, my insides feel hotter than the stove, which is still putting off heat. “He wants you to fill in.”

Whoa. My hands scramble for a rag in the sink, and I hastily wipe crumbs off the counter and into the small trash can I keep in the truck. I force my brain into business mode. Next Tuesday? That’s not much time to come up with a recipe, to prepare. To drive to L.A., I’d have to close the truck for a few days…

Of course, I’d be back in plenty of time for the festival. That’s the only commitment I actually have.

Still, my mind is spinning. “What exactly would it entail?”

“It’s just a five-minute spot. You’d be showing fans how to make a dish for Fourth of July or their summer picnics. Of course, it’s the perfect opportunity to show off a grilled cheese recipe you don’t mind sharing with everyone.”

There’s chatter in the background. Is Dale spending his Wednesday evening at one of his restaurants? Probably. The man’s as much of a workaholic as I am.

“Blake, this is your chance. We can plug the upcoming restaurant—at least hint at it—and you can prove yourself to be the charming guy I know is under all that starch somewhere.”

Ha. “But that’s not really me. I don’t…pander. I just cook.”

“Yes, well, if you want our restaurant—your restaurant—to be a raving success, you’ll pander your pants off.” At that, Dale chortles. “And if the network likes you, if the audience likes you, then my buddy says there are more opportunities. They’re actually looking for a chef to do a podcast, a regular TV spot, plus—and this would be later this fall—a thirty-minute segment all his own. You could eventually be this generation’s Wolfgang Puck.”

“Uh.” I clear my throat and yank at the collar of my shirt, then unbutton the top button. “Don’t you think that’s a little far-reaching?”

“I think the sky’s the limit. What about you, Blake? Don’t you want this? Don’t you ache for the success this will bring? I know it’s probably overwhelming, but these are the ways we create a dining experience people can’t live without. That people will pay loads of money for. They’ll be making reservations to taste your food a whole year in advance. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

But is it? I can’t help but think of something my mom said once: “Good food should be accessible to everyone.”

I’ve been so busy creating recipes here—which is what I came to Hallmark Beach to focus on—so Dale and I haven’t really hashed out the details of the restaurant. I know he wants it to be more upscale than I do. Maybe now is the time to bring up our differences of opinion.

But then there’s a knock on the back door of the truck. Right. Thomas. I’ve kept him waiting. “Okay, so Tuesday?” The five-minute spot doesn’t sound too hard. I can at least commit to that much if it’ll help the restaurant. Besides, it sounds like Dale’s already told him I’ll do it.

“Yes. You’ll need to get in Monday afternoon. You sublet your room in the apartment, right? You can stay with me.”

Of course I can. Dale is a perpetual bachelor, married to his work, and he’s got a mansion in Beverly Hills. “All right. Text me the details and I’ll see you Monday.”

“Excellent.” And with that, the call ends.

Another knock sounds. “Coming,” I call as I hurry over to open the door.

Thomas is waiting on the grass. “I thought maybe you forgot.”

“No, I just got a business call.” Taking the steps, I turn and close the door, then follow Thomas to an empty table outside Rainbow Ice. Many of the others are occupied by families and couples. From here, I can see through the alley to the beach, where the stars light the way to the busy boardwalk, the sand, the ocean. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What’s up?” The conversation with Dale may have woken me up, zinging adrenaline through my whole body, but I’m just waiting for the inevitable crash and would prefer to be home when that happens.

Thomas drums his fingers on the white resin tabletop. Then he stills abruptly. “I’m just going to come out and ask, man to man.” He huffs. “Are you and Lucy…together?”

I sit up straighter, wide awake now. “Why?”

The guy kind of shrinks at the sharpness of my tone. “Look, if you are, that’s fine. Great. I’m…happy for you.” He swallows. “But if you’re not, then I’d like to ask her out. But I didn’t want to step on any toes.” His hands make fists, and he pounds them lightly on the table. “So. Is there something between you that I should be aware of?”

Oh man. I want to punch this guy. To stand up, beat my chest, and scream that Lucy is mine and he’d better stay away. My insides tighten and shrivel. My lungs constrict. What is happening to me? Why do I feel on the verge of something like a panic attack?

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